


The Drill

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [102]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Asexuality, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Whump, a little bit, can be platonic or romantic you decide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: In their line of work, injuries are more of a 'when' than an 'if.' Luckily, they've realized this after a few too many times and come to an agreement. Now, when either of them gets injured, they know the drill.It's John's turn.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [102]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 5
Kudos: 223





	The Drill

**Author's Note:**

> sorry this is a little bit shorter! my brain's having a more difficult time making the words go

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “Yeah, I remember the drill.”

* * *

It’s late. John doesn’t even _know_ what time it is anymore. Sure, he could check, but that would require moving which would…not be ideal right now.

Sherlock banished him to the corner a few moments ago; John can still see his long black coat on the other side of the room, talking to Lestrade. Lestrade glances once in his direction and John gives him a nod. He’s not sure what they’re talking about but if the tension in Sherlock’s shoulders is anything to go by, it’s not good.

Sherlock gives the Detective Inspector one more curt nod and comes back over to John, coat flapping behind him. In any other circumstance, John would smirk, or smile, or even laugh at how it makes him look just the _tiniest_ bit like a scarecrow, standing tall and proud in the cornfield, keeping watch. Now, though, he just sucks in a deep breath, pressing his hand to his side, heaving himself to his feet.

“I thought I told you to wait,” Sherlock chides, helping John up the rest of the way, “until I was _over here_ to get up.”

“Well, I’m impatient,” John muttered, hissing breath through his teeth, “and look, you’re here now.”

“That’s not good enough,” comes the mumbled reply and John reaches out to grab Sherlock’s arm.

“Sure it is. You’re here now.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a few moments, searching. Then he wraps an arm around John’s waist and starts walking toward the door. The remaining police officers part on either side of them, letting them pass without any interruption.

“Sherlock,” John protests when Sherlock leans him up against a wall to hail a cab, “this isn’t—“

“John.” Sherlock glances over his shoulder before raising a hand for the cab. “You remember how this works, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” John says as a cab pulls neatly in front of them and Sherlock returns to start helping him inside, “I remember the drill.”

When one of them gets injured, _properly_ injured, there is a routine that they’ve agreed upon. They didn’t _quite_ get to the level of drawing up an actual contract and signing it but they’ve come pretty damn close. Keeps them from trying to throw the other one out of a window most of the time.

The injured person is required to rest, inform the non-injured person of any and/or all discomfort, accompany the non-injured person back to Baker Street without any protests, and allow themselves to be treated for any and/or all injuries.

John, with his possibly busted ribs, is the injured one today.

The ride back to Baker Street is quicker than John would’ve expected, then again, he’s also fairly sure he’s not remembering everything precisely right. The pain’s starting to seep in now that the adrenaline from the case is over. And he’s going to be honest, he’s never quite imagined museum fistfights several feet off the floor anywhere other than a James Bond movie, and yet…here they are.

Sherlock guides him out of the cab, up the stairs, to his bedroom. Ah, yes. This is the other part of the drill. More for the non-injured person’s peace of mind than anything else, but necessary nonetheless. Sherlock’s bedroom is the closest place to the entrance of the flat where there is only one viable entrance and/or exit—they learned their lesson about the window during the Scandal in Belgravia—and it provides the appropriate level of comfort for the injured person when they’ve finished being treated. For the most part, it works wonderfully.

The times when it doesn’t is when there isn’t time to get back to Baker Street. This isn’t one of those times.

John winces slightly as he sits—or is sat—on the bed, letting Sherlock’s deft fingers undo his coat and shirt. He moves when Sherlock prods his arms or taps his shoulder, but for the most part, he allows himself to drift, floating in the soft gray sea of concerned touches and murmured reassurances.

The drill is bloody fantastic for making sure they’re not accidentally doing something wrong, either. They both know—well, they’ve had it pointed out to them—that they’re a bit rubbish at talking about things at the best of times, let alone actually _asking_ for things that weren’t a replenish of the flat’s milk supply. With this, there’s an unspoken agreement that the injured person _will_ be taken care of, and the non-injured person _will_ get to fuss over them until they’re satisfied. This includes pestering the injured person to figure out if they want something.

John doesn’t really know how long he sits there either, only that there are cool things—probably the things from the first aid kit—being applied to his ribs, secured in place by a carefully wrapped bandage. Then he knows there are soft things being placed over him, probably from Sherlock’s own wardrobe. Then he knows there is a warm thing placed carefully into his cupped hands, Sherlock’s fingers lingering a little longer than maybe _absolutely_ necessary.

“John,” comes the low call, “do you need anything else?”

Does he? John blinks. “Sort yourself out first,” he mumbles, “I’m alright for now.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” comes Sherlock’s gentle correction.

John shakes his head to rouse himself the smallest bit, looking up at Sherlock, smiling a little. “I want _you_ to stay with me,” he mumbles, “but not without sorting yourself out first.”

Sherlock’s mouth forms a startled little ‘oh’ and he bustles off to the other side of the room, presumably cleaning up everything and going to clean himself up. John closes his eyes, sips at the warm drink in his lap—tea, his tired brain supplies—and listens to the rustle of Sherlock in the flat.

He’s alright, he’s safe, he’s warm, he’s taken care of. They both know the drill.

Sherlock didn’t get too hurt this time, and John dreads the day they _both_ get injured on a case. Then he’s not sure either of them will know the drill. But for now, he doesn’t have to worry about that.

He breathes, mindful of his ribs, sips his tea, waits patiently. He starts to float again, mind buzzing happily with the soft gray filling the room. It’s a warm-toned gray, it’s got some purple in it. Goes quite well with the pale green sheets and the black coat draped over the end of the bed. Oh, he should tell Sherlock to go hang that up.

But then Sherlock’s back, and he looks soft and warm in the pajamas he’s pulled on. His hands are gentle when they take the mug out of John’s hands and his movements careful when he lies John down on the bed, instructing him to _tell him_ if this gets uncomfortable, tucking a pillow under his head. John’s hand twitches for Sherlock’s, Sherlock lying down next to him, on his side, tall enough to wrap almost entirely around John.

He can ask him to move the coat later.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


End file.
